Take Two
by Try2CatchMe
Summary: It was a car crash, of all things. Sure, a demon was driving the semi, but c'mon, a car crash? Seriously? Did Fate just get bored and decide to piss him off? AU from 2x01 on.
1. Chapter 1

Okay, I don't know what I'm doing at all. Why am I posting this? Why did I write it in present tense? I never do that. I'm not done writing it so everything about it is subject to change, but for some reason it just felt right to post it today.

AU from Season 2 Episode 1 on.

* * *

_He was running. Running and running, never stopping. Running through and past and over trees and rocks and underbrush and there was always, _always_ more._

_Something was chasing him. He couldn't fight it, so he _had_ to run. As far and as fast as he could. But there was always more to these woods and he had been running for _ages_ and he was getting tired._

_Scratch that, he'd passed tired three miles ago, he didn't even know how he was still putting one foot in front of the other, let alone at any speed worth a damn._

_He looked ahead and blanched, suddenly digging his heels in, meaning to backpedal away from the thing in front of him._

_He turned and there it was, not a foot away._

_"You're getting to be a pain in my ass, Winchester."_

_Fingers touched his forehead and the world dropped away._

* * *

It takes him a while to figure out what's happened to him.

The first time he wakes up, he's in the driver seat of the Impala and Bob Dylan is playing. It's dark out and he's confused, just for a second. Then he hears the trunk slam and knows he's not alone.

Baffled and wary, he gets out and there's Sammy. Thirteen-year-old Sammy, with an excited gleam in his eyes and an innocent, happy grin Dean hasn't seen in years.

"_Come on, let's go!_"

His voice fluctuates between high and deep, but somehow manages not to crack, and he runs out to the field by the road, holding tight to a box of roman candles and firecrackers like they just might disappear if he doesn't.

They shoot off fireworks and it's 1996 again, and it's one of the happiest nights of Dean's life because it was one of the last times he felt like he was the awesome big brother, the one who could make everything better.

But this time around, he can't help but feel like he's forgetting something.

* * *

He's dead.

He figures _that_ part out pretty quick, but it's like the knowledge doesn't want to stay in his head. He knows, but he doesn't want to remember.

The fact that he appears to be in Heaven (maybe?) is a pleasant surprise. He didn't think Heaven existed. He assumed Hell did, what with the demons, but he'd never believed in Heaven. He'd always just thought you died and that was it.

But now he's wondering if everyone who isn't a serial killer or something gets into Heaven, because he sure as hell knows it isn't the devout because that does not describe him at _all_ and he hasn't lived a good enough life to warrant a free pass. What with all the stealing and credit card scams, it felt like saving the people he could only made him break even.

Still, he was here... somehow.

It takes him a while to remember the hospital. The memory hits him somewhere in between his mom cutting the crust off his PB&J and the first time he kisses Lisa.

It was a car crash, of all things. Sure, a demon was driving the semi, but c'mon, a _car crash_? Seriously?

Did Fate just get bored and decide to piss him off?

Then there was Sam and Dad fighting, of course, and Tessa the Grim Reaper.

And he remembers why he's dead.

Sammy was begging him, begging him to hold on. Saying he couldn't leave now, not when they were just starting to be brothers again, saying he needed him, Dean couldn't leave him alone with Dad, they'd kill each other.

But then Tessa explained to him how angry spirits were born. Told him he'd spend the rest of his life unseen and unheard. Alone. Told him he'd become one of the things he hunted. That he might hurt someone.

Might hurt Sam.

And she gave him a choice- stay for that life, or go with her.

He didn't want to leave his brother, but he would _not_ risk hurting him.

So Tessa brushed a hand across his forehead and it was the Fourth of July.

* * *

It would be so easy to just sit back and let himself fall into these memories, it's so much harder to try and focus on the idea of being here not being the right thing, but he _knows_ that back on Earth, Sam and Dad are alone.

Dad can take care of himself. Hell, Dad had ditched them the first opportunity he had. But Sammy, he has a demon after him. A demon with "plans"; "_plans_" with _ominous emphasis_. He can't trust Dad to watch Sam's back, especially not with the way they butt heads.

So what if he's dead, he has to be able to help somehow. Sure, he might not be able to shoot the bad things in the face anymore, but he has to be able to do _something_.

If he can just _watch_ Sammy, make sure he's okay on occasion, anything would be better than this not knowing. Sure, it's a long shot, but he can't just sit back while Sam is in trouble down there. Hell, would he even know if Sam had died, if he was trapped in his own memories like this?

He makes his decision while teaching a six-year-old Sammy how to ride a bike. He needs to find a way out, if not of Heaven, then at least out of this infinite memory loop. It's just so hard to _concentrate_. It feels like it has taken him months just to be able to step back enough to think this much.

When he figures out how to control his surroundings, it's like Christmas. Literally, because he's thinking about the Christmas Sam gave him his amulet and then he's sitting in the crappy old motel room he remembers so well.

It takes him what feels like a couple of weeks to remember again after that, now that he can jump to whatever memory he wants. Still, at least he can use this newfound power to his advantage.

It's the matter of a thought to go from the driver's seat of the Impala to Bobby's living room.

Research has always been Sam's shtick, Dean is more of the 'shoot it until it dies' sort, but when Sam went away to Stanford, he was left without another option. So he spent a few horrible weeks in a small town library, refreshing his knowledge of Latin and basic mythology.

It is with these hard-learned skills that he tackles Bobby's library. It was 1989 and their Dad had dropped them off with Bobby for a few weeks that had coincided with Sammy's sixth birthday. It had been a great time, Sam got to read all he wanted, got to go to school, got his first birthday cake ever, and Bobby started teaching Dean the inner workings of cars.

This time around, though, instead of standing on an old wooden crate in the garage so he could lean elbow-deep into an engine, Dean is inside, flipping through book after book, trying to learn all he could about Heaven.

He's never researched this before, and it's infuriating how _much_ lore there was and how often it contradicted itself. Every culture on Earth had their own interpretation of Heaven or Paradise or whatever and to be perfectly honest he has no idea if he is in one or the other or some sort of bastard combination of all of them.

It takes a long time, as everything here seems to. Of course, he can't mind that much, not when he's at Bobby's during one of the longest periods of happiness in his life. Even hunched over the table with a Coke (because even in a memory he was in charge of, Bobby kept the beer out of reach of children), he could just flick his eyes up and Sam would be on the other side, doing his homework, or in the living room, asleep on the couch.

It's harder and harder to fight off the urge to just fall into this flow. He's holding onto his determination by the tips of his fingers. The only reason he doesn't let go is because he doesn't know if he'd ever see Sam again if he did. If this is Heaven, Sammy should be here, he'd always been better than Dean, hell he actually believed in the whole Heaven thing.

But then again, Dean's mom isn't here either. Sure, his memory version of her is, but she isn't. She should be in Heaven too, shouldn't she?

He can't stay here if he isn't even able to see his family. He has to figure out where he is, what he can do, what the rules are. He can go from there.

It's only after three dozen books and an accident involving Holy Water that he comes to the tentative conclusion that he's in the Judeo-Christian version of Heaven.

Again, _how_ did he get there? Weren't you supposed to actually believe in the big man upstairs for that?

Or maybe it was the only place that would take him, it's not like he was exactly besties with the pagan pantheons.

The more he thinks about everything, the less sense it makes. How and why he is in Heaven, why he's getting out, what he's going to do when he does- none of the answers stay the same for more than three minutes before his brain is filling in new 'what if's and theories.

Still, he isn't stopping until he finds Sam. That's rock number one, he can build on it.

* * *

He finds the Enochian eventually. It's at the back of a dusty bookshelf that probably hasn't been disturbed in at least a decade, like Bobby thought it was probably rubbish, but had enough doubt to keep it around.

Good thing he did too.

"_Dean! Where are you?_"

After an untold amount of time, his memories are starting to act differently than they had at first. Originally, when he'd stayed inside to research, Bobby had continued outside and carried on how he had the very first time, even though Dean didn't go with him. Now Bobby was calling out to him.

Then it feels like something has reached into his head, closed around his concentration, and _yanked_.

He claws back higher brain function after reliving the first time Dad took him out to shoot, which he thinks is some kind of record, and whips up a new memory at Bobby's because he's starting to think he spent too much time in the first one.

Something must have changed. He's not sure _what_, but he has no doubt. It's been clear for a while now that he swimming against the current with the whole 'not becoming one with his memories' thing, but now, now he's thinking he's fighting against something sentient, rather than the natural course of dead people.

He's going to have to be more careful, if this thing has power in _Heaven_, he's pretty sure he's no match for it.

This memory at Bobby's might be even better. It's only four days long, but it's December and he and Sammy sit in the living room, watching all the crappy Christmas-themed movies that most channels love spitting out that time of year (or, in Dean's case, sitting on the couch with a book on runes older than most civilizations balanced on his knees), and drinking cocoa, the real stuff, not the instant kind.

But unlike before, he can't put this memory on repeat. It ends and he can't start it over and now he's _sure_ someone has wised up to his antics because something yanks at his concentration again and the next thing he knows, he's snuck into a public pool at ten at night to teach Sam how to swim.

It's harder now, because he can only get to the book sporadically, and he can't keep his notes so he has to _memorize_ what he needs and the only thing Dean's ever been good at memorizing was every Clint Eastwood movie ever.

Still, he knows he's farther ahead than ever; someone wouldn't be trying to screw up his efforts if he wasn't on to something.

And yeah, it's kind of a testament to how messed up he is when someone trying to screw with him is actually encouraging.

He has to go back, way back for good memories with Bobby where he can get at that book. Fortunately, it turns out Pastor Jim has a copy of the book too, so he has another cache of memories to access there.

And thank God for Pastor Jim, who, it turns out, has even more books on the subject of Heaven than Bobby does. Sure, they're all mostly theory and hearsay, but they help Dean _think_ and that is invaluable.

In the end, he has a rough idea of his situation. All the stories said Heaven was a perfect place, but humans were all so different that there was no way it was the same for all of them. So, theory said, that Heaven was different for every person.

If that was true, it definitely explained this memory loop thing that was going on. He could only access good memories. He hadn't tried to bring up a bad one, but he'd tried mediocre with no results at all.

Still, basing Heaven off his good memories? Making him alone? It was both unoriginal and a horrible backfire. Dean hates being alone more than anything. Sure, he shares his memories with Sammy, and Bobby, and Dad, and Lisa, and Pastor Jim, but they aren't the real thing, he _knew_ that.

Knowing it's all an illusion makes loneliness settle bone-deep inside him and yeah, now concentrating is a _lot_ easier.

His first step is going to be getting out of his Heaven. If he can just do that, maybe he can _think_. He can make a plan that is somehow beyond 'Find Sammy'.

It doesn't take that much longer, with that theory and the knowledge of the small amount of Enochian the tiny book held.

He manages to cobble together a sigil that ought to open up an exit. At least, he thinks so. He's pulling at straws and has no doubt about it, but he has to try something. It's a working idea, and if he even gets a _reaction_ it will be progress.

But he can't sit around anymore. Not now that he knows he's fighting against something.

Fighting is something he knows how to do.

* * *

The second he figures out how to do it, he has to.

Because it is now _so_ hard to think, he's lost himself twice in the last hour.

He calls up one of his last memories at Bobby's house. He'd gotten in late and found Sam asleep on the couch, waiting for him to come back.

He does the exact same thing he did then: grabs the blanket off the back of the couch, folds it over his little brother who has just grown tall enough that he doesn't fit on the couch too well anymore. He runs a hand over Sammy's hair, smoothing it out of his face.

Then he walks over to Bobby's cabinets, reaches up to where he keeps the less volatile supplies, and grabs himself a handful of chalk.

He walks to the front door and draws out the symbol that he's burned into his brain after hours of sketching and making slight changes until he thought it could work.

He connects the last line and something flashes outside the window.

Then Dean turns the knob and steps outside.

It's sort of anti-climactic for a jailbreak from Heaven.

It's bright outside, which Dean really shouldn't be surprised by. He should really be used to the jumps between day and night and entire seasons by now, but he's not, he's really not.

It's a forest, a mottled collection of trees from any and every corner of the world, thrown together with no semblance of order. They stretch high over his head and into blue sky. He has no idea where the sun is, the forest is all shade. It could be any forest and he wouldn't know.

All he does know is that he's never seen it before.

He lets out a shaky exhale of stunned relief. He cannot believe that worked on the first try.

He turns and looks at the door he just came through. He can see back into Bobby's house through the doorway, he has yet to let go of the knob, but there's nothing around the view, not even a frame.

Dean has the sick feeling that if he closes the door, it will disappear and there will be no way back.

He looks back at the couch and takes a slow, deep breath.

Then he pushes the door. He doesn't close it by hand or slam it, he exerts just enough force so that it closes by itself. It clicks shut, the outline flashes, and then it's gone, replaced by more forest.

A wave of his hand tells him that, yes, it's gone. He is well and truly alone now. And he has no idea where he is. All he has are the clothes on his back, the knife in his boot (courtesy of the memory of going out, though now he's wishing he'd picked a memory where he was armed to the teeth), and the handful of chalk in his pocket.

Yeah, he snorts, he's a force to be reckoned with.

So he starts walking.

* * *

The forest is endless.

It's infinite and feels unchanging. Sometimes there's little rolls of elevation change or some patch of grass that isn't at all big enough to be called a clearing, but is free of trees for a few yards at least, and he _thinks_ he can see a mountain in the distance, but he can't be sure.

If he had to estimate, he'd say he'd been walking for three or four hours now, but he has no idea how much ground he's covered. Everything looks the same, hell, the damn light hasn't even shifted.

He's starting to panic, just a little.

He has had nothing to do but walk, so of course, now that he's free of his Heaven and _can_ think, his mind is taking the opportunity to freak him out as much as possible.

He has _no_ idea where he is, has no way of getting back to where he was, has no supplies, nothing. He doesn't know if he's still in Heaven or if he's somewhere entirely different, but this place is way too ethereal to be Earth.

At first he'd thought he had stumbled into someone else's Heaven, but if that were true he's pretty sure he'd have run into them or heard _something_ by now.

But there's nothing, no rustle of wind or grass or leaves or animals, not even birds.

It's starting to freak him out.

He could be stuck here forever, for _eternity_, if he doesn't find his way out, and he doesn't even have an illusion anymore.

The only sound he can hear is his own breathing.

He's beginning to believe he's done something monumentally stupid.

Then there's a soft rustling sound behind him and he jumps at the suddenness of it and whips around, already falling into a crouched fighting stance, ready to dip and yank the knife out of his boot if he has to.

Standing in front of him is something that looks like a man, but he knows it isn't. He could never explain how, but he _knows_. It doesn't feel evil and he's usually pretty inclined to trust his instincts, but he's wound too tight and has too little information and there's no way he's letting his guard down even for a second.

The guy himself seems unassuming enough. A couple of inches shorter than Dean, he's wearing a cheap black suit over a white shirt and a blue tie. A kind of ridiculous tan trench coat is draped over his shoulders like an afterthought, as if he doesn't know what it's for, or maybe even realize that it's there. In direct contrast to his business-like appearance, his dark hair makes him like he just rolled out of bed (if his bed was an angry cat, or perhaps a washing machine) and he's rocking a five-o-clock shadow.

It's his presence that gives it away, really. Dean's taller, but he feels like he's being towered over by someone much bigger, or maybe an angry bear. The guy doesn't look angry, hell if anything he looks bemusedly curious, but his eyes make the hunter feel like someone is performing some kind of invasive surgery on his soul.

"Hello, Dean."

* * *

Alright, that's it. In my fit of temporary insanity, I've posted it. Let me know what you think!


	2. Chapter 2

Well, the first chapter was fairly well received, so I decided to continue with my trend of being completely insane and post the second. I changed the summary because I felt it more accurately portrayed what the story was like; I think it fits much better.

Hope you enjoy!

* * *

Dean Winchester stands before him, ready to fight or flee at the slightest provocation and Castiel is not sure what to make of him.

His name is one of the few human names Castiel has heard often. It is known that he was of import in life, but few know why and Castiel is not one of them.

Still, he finds it curious that a being whose existence amounts to less than three decades can have drawn the attention of both Heaven and Hell with such intensity. It is good that Dean is here, now, safe from those on Earth that would attempt to use whatever it is that makes him important.

Dean does not seem to agree, if the fact that he has left his Heaven behind is any indication.

Balthazar, who has held this patrol for the past century, had warned him of Dean's tendency to appear here, his insistence that he is needed back on Earth. Castiel is curious how he managed to break free of his Heaven, into this in-between place. It is not a task that would be easy to undertake, let alone complete.

And yet, here they stand. The space has taken on the form of a forest, likely due to Dean's influence. It usually shifts and changes, flashes of Creation before the Fall, serene and glorious.

"What are you?" Dean growls, wary, so very wary, hand twitching toward the knife in his boot.

Castiel is confused by the question, surely the answer should be obvious, but answers anyway, "I am an angel of the Lord."

Dean snorts, mocking and incredulous, "Yeah, sure." He watches Castiel, though what he's watching _for_ the angel is unsure, "And what does an angel of the Lord want with me?"

"It is my intent to return you to your area of Heaven."

In a series of gestures that merge into a single, fluid movement, Dean has pulled the knife from his boot, aimed with such practice he does not consciously have to analyze, and let the blade fly.

The hilt of the weapon thuds into Castiel's chest, halting the blade's progress. The knife would have pierced several vital organs, if he were actually in a vessel, not that it would have affected him.

He has not looked away from Dean during the entire incident and now he sees the fierce satisfaction at a successful attack melt into shock and horror as he wraps fingers around the hilt of the blade and tugs it free of this form.

"That was unnecessary." He flips the knife and plucks it out of the air by the blade, handing it grip first back to its owner.

For a moment, Dean only stares at the proffered weapon. Then, he reaches out a hesitant (but steady) hand and takes it.

"I don't want to go back." Dean's voice wavers out of the strength it was attempting, changing no less than three times in the course of the sentence, though Castiel does not have the words to describe where it goes.

"Clearly." He acknowledges.

Then he hesitates.

He ought to follow protocol and return Dean to where he belongs, but he is curious. He wants to know why the hunter wishes to leave Heaven, he does not believe he has ever heard of a person attempting to leave before.

"What is your goal?" He asks, finally.

Dean looks at him, wary still and more than a little confused. The human soul is a strange thing, in a body it is perfectly contained, yet here in Heaven its emotions are not restricted to the form it takes, they leak over a small area and it is but the work of a thought to read what they are.

Though _why_ they are is a much more complex mystery.

"My brother is in danger." Dean finally answers, "He needs someone to have his back."

"You've lived your time," Castiel points out, feeling Dean should already know this. "You don't have to care for him anymore. It is no longer your concern."

"He's my _brother_. Alive and well or dead and rotting, he will _always_ be my concern."

The hunter is angry now, though Castiel cannot fathom why. Perhaps he said something offensive without realizing. Humans are curious that way.

"Your time is past," he states again. "How are you discontent in Heaven? You are safe here and have no cause to worry."

"I'm '_discontent_'," Dean spits the word as though it has personally caused him grief, "Because this is all just a pipe dream. I want my brother, the real one, not the Memorex carbon copy. And I don't appreciate being forced to feel like I'm perpetually high either!"

That... makes no sense. Each soul's personal Heaven is created by their most pleasant memories. Happiness should be default. It is not a matter of force, either. Heaven is simply a place where negative emotions cannot take hold.

How, then, did Dean come to believe he was trapped?

Castiel is beginning to understand how he could be of significant import in life, if he is so unlike the rest of humanity.

He does not say this, though. Instead, he says, "You allowed your reaper to take you. Surely you came to terms with your situation then?"

"I wasn't going to risk turning into a vengeful spirit and hurting someone!"

Now Castiel understands.

He is standing before a Righteous Man.

His first instinct is to go to his superiors, but they must already know. If Dean is in this section of Heaven, he ought to have been under Castiel's garrison's protection in life. How could his superiors not know? And why has he not heard about it?

Dean Winchester is a Righteous Man, one of only a handful since the rule of David. The angel is certain he is not supposed to know this, though he cannot fathom why. Righteous Men are meant to be celebrated and protected in life, not kept secret, even in death.

Castiel is the strategist of his garrison. He knows a strategic move when he sees one. A Righteous Man who lives a hard life in obscurity and is unknown even after his death is a blatant singularity.

Castiel is a good soldier. He has never questioned an order or failed to complete a mission. But this, this cannot go unchecked. Righteous Men, 'men after God's own heart', are meant to be kings, champions, commanders of armies.

Dean Winchester died at age twenty-seven with only three people in the world who would mourn him.

The protection of Righteous Men is an order that comes from much higher up than Zachariah, Castiel's superior, or even Raphael, above him.

He can think of no better place for a Righteous Man than Heaven, but Dean Winchester does not agree.

There are too many uncertainties. Castiel cannot risk drawing attention to this. If his superiors have deviated from his Father's Will (which is the only explanation he can think of, loathe though he may be to admit it), they will lie. They may, perhaps, take measures against him.

Castiel does not want to believe there may be traitors among his brothers, but he cannot stand by and ignore this. If they have been keeping Dean a secret, they must have plans for him. They should not, he has lived his time, but there is no other reason for them to hide him from others. They may intend to place him in danger for some unknown purpose.

It is the work of a moment to decide he will not allow that. They may be his garrison, his direct superiors, his brothers, but he knows as well as any angel that it is impossible to serve two masters and Castiel's allegiance is, above all, to his Father.

He has never before had to come up with a course of action without a given goal or orders. However, he is a strategist and has plenty of practice determining priorities of import.

He needs more information, to determine whether or not Dean is truly in danger. But first, he must make sure that Dean cannot be found by his brothers. He could always take him back to his Heaven, but if he managed to escape once he is more than capable of doing so a second time and Castiel will not risk altering his memory. If Dean has been able to retain his awareness of his situation for so long, he may have noticed something important.

"Dude... you're staring." Dean is looking at him as though he doesn't quite know what to think. Castiel can relate.

"You are an anomaly," He says instead, never lifting his eyes from the hunter, which seems to make the human uncomfortable. "I believe, in this case, that there may be a more apt course of action than dictated by protocol."

* * *

"Uh huh."

Dean isn't buying it for a second.

He doesn't believe that his argument actually swayed this 'angel' at all, not in the least because he checked out before Dean was even done talking. "And what does protocol dictate?"

"That I return you to your Heaven and remove the memories of how you managed to leave it."

Something cold and hard and all too real settles in Dean's gut, "Wait, you mean if I'd managed to escape before now, I wouldn't even know it?"

The angel tilts his head at him, "I do not believe 'escape' is an accurate word, but you are essentially correct."

Dean knows he's dead, he doesn't actually have a physical body, but he still can't help feeling lightheaded and nauseous at this revelation, "Have..." his voice is soft so he clears his throat and goes louder, "Have I ever escaped before?"

The angel looks vaguely disapproving at his word choice still, but answers, "I believe, before this patrol fell to me, you were returned to your Heaven six times."

"Six..." It's only Dean's hunter's instincts that keep him standing because his knees are no longer too keen on the idea.

God, it took him so long just this time to get out, but he's done it seven times? How long has he been dead?

At _least_ seven times.

"And how many times since you drew the short straw?"

"This is the first time we've met." The angel has finally stopped with the creepy x-ray stare and is now looking around, "We cannot stay here. Follow me."

And the angel must use some kind of magic or something because, after a brief lurch, Dean is stumbling after him. At least they're going in a different direction than Dean came from. He's not sure if that means anything in the grand scheme of not being forced to return to his Heaven, but it makes him feel better in spite of himself.

Because he knows he's no match for this creature who took a silver knife to the chest and then _handed it back to him_.

"Where are we going?"

"I must create a place you will not be found." The angel says, still looking around as though he expects to be attacked. His continued observation makes Dean tense automatically and copy him, looking over his shoulder. "I expect something is not as it should be. It would be best for you to be in your Heaven, but I do not trust you to remain there. I will not remove your memories, however, because if my suspicions are correct, you may know something important."

Dean feels like he accidentally skipped a chapter, but forges ahead anyway. "Yeah? And how do I know you're not taking me right back to square one?"

"I do not need you to follow me to return you to your Heaven, Dean."

The way he says it is not quite a threat, but it's close enough that Dean feels his free hand curl into a fist and his jaw clench.

They walk for while. It may be an hour, it may be five minutes, it's hard to gauge time when there's no way to tell where the sun is or if there's a sun at all. Then the angel stops. They're halfway up the side of something that might be a mountain, but Dean has no way to tell through the trees.

"This location is adequate."

Dean's grip on his knife tightens. He still doesn't believe the angel isn't planning on wiping his slate and starting him on this all over again.

The angel gives him a look that makes Dean believe he's just a heartbeat away from rolling his eyes. The look is gone in the next second and the angel is making his way to a cluster of shrubbery against the steep side of the mountain and moving some aside and-

Holy shit. It's a cave. And not a tiny hole in the rock either, but a legitimate cavern inside the earth. There's a slope of a couple of feet to get in the thing, making it hidden completely unless you already knew it was there.

Or, apparently, unless you were an angel and could find out.

"This place is a fair distance from the general patrol route," the angel explains without prompting, "And it is one of the last places to be checked in the use of many search patterns. If anyone is looking, it will take them some time to find you here."

And now Dean has something to say, "Dude, I have to get back to my brother, I can't stay here."

The angel gives him another look that manages to somehow be annoyed without actually twitching a single facial muscle. He looks... maybe frustrated? Like he thinks Dean has somehow missed the point entirely.

Well, screw that.

"I cannot return you to Earth." The angel says flatly.

"Can't or won't?" Dean demands.

He has _no idea_ how long he has been here, and he doesn't want to think about it because he's kind of afraid the answer will be 'ages'. Sam could be dead and he wouldn't even know it. He could be up to his floppy hair in trouble.

He could be... older than Dean by now.

Oh, _hell_ no. Even if Sam is older, he definitely still needs someone to watch his back. Sam might be the more realistic, practical brother, but his instincts are _crap_. In hunting or, hell, even just trying not to get screwed over in daily life, intuition is invaluable.

So yeah, the idea that his little brother might ever not need him is highly doubtful and kind of ridiculous.

The angel is looking at him differently right now. Curious and kind of unfathomable and Dean can't read that at all.

"It is not a task for a single angel. Even if I were to return you to your body," the angel's voice is sort of apologetic now, what the hell? "it would not go unnoticed."

Right. If this angel is to be believed (which, to reiterate, Dean is not on board with), he's breaking the rules already. Are angels even capable of breaking the rules? Doesn't something terrible happen to them if they do?

He shakes his head. Not the time.

"I can't just leave my brother alone down there."

"I question your definition of the word 'alone'," There a reprimand in there somewhere, Dean is sure.

The angel pauses, checking out again, like he's either contemplating millennia of knowledge or has been distracted by something shiny.

Finally, he seems to return to the present, speaking carefully, like he's double checking the words as they pass his lips. "It is possible that you may be able to observe your brother, however."

Dean snaps to attention because, at this point, he'll take what he can get.

"How?"

The angel is clearly about to answer, before suddenly his head snaps up and it's like he's listening to something. Dean is instantly alert and putting his back to the steep incline of the mountain, ready for anything.

But after a moment the angel just looks back at him, "I must go. Stay here. I will return soon."

And then there's a sound, like a tear of air or maybe a beat of wings and Dean blinks and is alone on the mountain.

* * *

And there's chapter two, guys! Let me know what you think about it. Constructive criticism is more than welcome, seriously. If I screwed something up or accidentally contradicted myself, I want to know about it.

By the way, the chapter lengths for this story are probably going to fluctuate like crazy. When I write fanfics, I don't break them up into chapters as I go, I just cram them all into one long document. When I'm uploading I just kind of go 'that seems like a good stopping place' with no real regard to length.

Until next time, thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

Hi guys, I'm baaaack!

Wow, I got a lot of fantastic feedback on the last chapter you guys, thanks so much! I really appreciate hearing your thoughts on this story, please keep them coming! Especially because there's some complex concepts in this chapter. Even though I think I explained them well enough, just because they make sense to me doesn't mean they'll make sense to anyone else and I'm trusting you guys to tell me if they sound like nonsense.

By the way, I _still_ have no idea where I'm going with this thing. Plot? What plot?

* * *

Dean's intention is to explore the cave he's apparently going to be spending some time in.

He can see inside, thought he's not sure where the faint glow comes from. He puts his back to a wall, waiting for his eyes to adjust some more so he can get a better idea of what's around him.

He doesn't expect to fall asleep.

He wakes up some undetermined amount of time later, though if he had to guess he would say he'd been out a lot longer than he was comfortable with.

His head is using his own shoulder as a pillow, tilted at an angle that would have given him a major neck cramp if he still had a body that cared about silly things like the way muscles are supposed work.

It's for that exact reason that it's weird when he shifts and feels stiff. For the first time since he's died, he has to stretch and work out the kinks before he gets up.

That's a little worrying.

Dean shakes the thought out of his head. He's a hunter for crying out loud, it's a good day if he doesn't wake up with a broken bone.

He lurches to his feet and looks around. It's brighter outside than it was earlier and he's not sure what to think about that.

The light is bright enough that he expects it to hurt when he slips outside and is surprised when it doesn't.

The forest is gone, replaced by faint roars and crashes of waves against rock. Salt stings in his nose and the cool air sweeping off the ocean makes him shiver inside his jacket.

He's not sure when the mountainside changed to a cliff over the ocean and he wants to panic about that a little, but he pushes the urge down with the ease of long practice.

Then there's that sound of tearing air and it's too close, _way _too close.

Dean jerks to his left away from the sound, completely reflexively. He doesn't go off the cliff, but he _might_ if he can't get his balance under control.

Then there's a hand at his elbow, at once a feather-light touch and a steel grip, pulling him back onto his feet and, yeah, that's embarrassing.

Once again safe on solid ground, he looks up and, yup, there's the angel. He's not sure whether to be pissed or grateful, so he compromises.

"Thanks." He bites out, not really sarcastic, but close enough to count.

"You are welcome," and the angel is just as calm as ever, leaving Dean feeling again like he's missing something. "I apologize for taking so long to return. I was... detained."

Dean decides very quickly that he doesn't want to know. "Yeah, well..." then he decides he _really_ doesn't want to know how long he was asleep, "What were you talking about earlier, how I could watch over Sammy?"

And now the angel's doing that eviscerating stare again. Dean kind of wants to punch him just to see if that will make him stop, "Attempting that will take a great deal of concentration and control over your own soul. The consequences of trying and failing do not bear thinking about."

"I can't just sit up here on my ass while God-knows-what is happening to my brother!"

He expects a reprimand, for either the swearing or the blasphemy, but neither come. The angel just looks at him and Dean gets that feeling again, like they're not on the same page or, hell, maybe even reading the same book.

"It will take a great deal of practice before it is safe to attempt such an action."

"Fine, I'll practice." Dean shifts awkwardly before realizing he has no idea what to do, "... what am I practicing exactly?"

The angel looks a heartbeat away from a sigh, but Dean is perfectly okay with being a pain if it gets him what he wants.

"You will require more energy if you insist upon attempting this." The angel's voice is flat and face expressionless, but Dean gets the distinct impression he thinks the hunter is being reckless. He's not sure what to think about that.

"Any chance of a double cheeseburger?" It's a weak attempt to dispel the 'DOOM' look from the angel's face, but Dean feels a sharp spike of surprise when the celestial being actually appears to give the idea serious thought.

"That is a manner of sustenance?"

"Er, yeah it's food." Now Dean's thinking about it, wonderful, juicy bacon cheeseburgers like the ones from Conner's Diner in St. Louis. Oh, those were fantastic.

There's that noise again and Dean's alone on the cliff. He barely has time to think 'What the hell?' before the angel is back, holding a white plastic sack which is really kind of surreal.

Even more surreal is when he takes the sack when it's offered and finds a Styrofoam container inside. The smell hits him as soon as he opens it and he is once again torn between anger and gratitude because this isn't just any bacon cheeseburger, this is one from Conner's Diner.

So he again aims for somewhere in the middle.

"Dude, did you read my mind?" He asks, feeling one eyebrow do an incredulous upward climb at the entire situation.

The angel shifts next to him, "Your thoughts were very loud." and yeah, Dean just does _not _want to go there. Though he does make a mental note to not think so loud.

Whatever _that_ means.

He shrugs eventually and sits, legs dangling over the ledge, Styrofoam balanced on his knees and _damn_ that burger is just as good as he remembers.

After a few moments of Dean taking huge bites out of his burger (he's pretty sure he's making porn noises at it, but he doesn't care), there an awkward shift of clothing and the angel stiffly lowers himself to the ground next to the hunter, copying his position of having his legs over the side of the cliff with a ridiculous amount of care, as though he thinks he might do it wrong. He's clearly confused about what to do with his hands as _he_ doesn't have a delicious bacon cheeseburger to call his very own, but winds up folding them delicately in his lap.

Dean is wondering at the whole spectacle before it occurs to him that he may have just witnessed the angel sitting down for the first time in his existence.

Which is... sort of awesome.

There's an unhurried silence for a little while and Dean occasionally checks out of the corner of his eye to see what the angel is up to. Most of the time he's staring unfathomably into the distance, which Dean assumes is pretty par for the course when it comes to angels, but once or twice he catches him staring curiously at the utterly normal phenomena of the hunter demolishing his cheeseburger.

He catches him doing it again and, fighting the urge to roll his eyes, holds out the half-eaten burger, "Want a bite?"

That gets him another head-tilt and he's pretty sure now that that's about the extent of this angel's personality. "I do not require sustenance."

Dean notices that that's technically not an answer, but also thinks of something that he'd like answered a bit more than whether or not the angel wants a burger, "Well I'm dead, neither do I."

So the question is, why does he have a cheeseburger? Not that he's complaining.

"You no longer require physical sustenance. However, outside your Heaven your soul is contained by nothing. Out here, any effort you expend will make it more difficult to hold your soul together. Even the practice of controlling it will cause it to slowly dissipate and eventually cease to exist."

Dean's stopped chewing now and his mouth is hanging open, which is probably grossly unattractive, but the angel is still talking.

"That is why it is imperative that souls remain inside personalized areas." And, yeah, it would have been pretty awesome if someone had _explained_ that instead of apparently just booting him back every time he got out. "Were you to merely reside outside your Heaven, it would take some time before you began to notice the effects. However, if you insist on attempting to observe your brother, the practice of controlling your soul will cause it to spread at an accelerate rate."

"And the cheeseburger helps how?" Because he's still fuzzy on that. It doesn't stop him from polishing it off though, because it's a damn good burger regardless.

"To keep your soul together, it requires a focal point. Like a..." The angel pauses, clearly searching for an analogy that clears the situation up. "... magnet to keep it from drifting too far." His tone of voice says he finds the simile lacking. "A small piece of my Grace- my angelic energy," he clarifies to Dean's 'what-the-hell' eyebrow, "should be more than sufficient. If you had better control of your soul, you would be able to absorb it on your own. As you do not, it is a good deal easier to have you absorb it in a different way and, as your soul has taken the form of your body, it seemed most efficient to use the medium of food."

Whu-

Wait.

WHAT?

Dean's brain hits a wall of incredulity, but he forces himself past it because, yes, the angel definitely just said that. He makes a few aborted attempts at speech before gesturing impotently to the empty Styrofoam beside him, "Did I just eat a piece of angel?"

The angel's face is as impassive as ever, yet he still somehow manages to convey an expression like he just stepped in something unpleasant. "That phrase implies eventual consumption, which is impossible as you are merely human, but that may be as close a comparison as is possible."

Which is- no. Just no.

"There's _angel_ in me?" That sounds wrong, but he's not going to bother rephrasing it. He spreads his newly freed hand on his chest. He doesn't feel any different, maybe less tired than he was before, but he definitely doesn't feel like he's plus a chunk of angel.

Then again, how would he know?

The angel squints at him, then does that head-tilt thing again, "You are angry."

"Hell yeah I'm angry! You stuck angel in me! Son of a bitch - you couldn't have, I don't know, _asked me first_?"

"I did not anticipate acquiring your consent would be a problem. You have been quite insistent upon finding a way to observe your brother. You have also been quite determined to avoid returning to your Heaven. This was the only way to allow both without wiping you from existence."

Okay, that- that is all true. But still. What does that make him now?

"Coulda at least warned me..." Dean grumbled, rubbing anxious circles compulsively on his chest, trying to _feel_ if he's different.

But then the angel is _right_ up in his personal space and he's trying not to flinch away.

"I am aiding you at great risk to myself," each word is carefully enunciated in the angel's growl of a voice, like he gargles sawdust and broken glass as part of a morning routine, "It would be but the work of a _thought_ to send you back to your Heaven, find the medium of your escape, and destroy it. You should show me some respect."

Dean knows a threat when he hears one and he's getting that feeling again, like he's about to be mauled by a bear.

Then the angel leans away and he can breathe again.

There's a crushing awkward silence for exactly as long as it takes Dean to quit feeling like he's holding up an iron rod in a lightning storm.

"I gotta say, man, you're not at all how I was expecting angels to be."

There's more silence, then, "And how were you expecting angels to be?"

The angel's voice is part irritation, clearly he's still pissed, and part grudging curiosity.

Dean can work with curiosity. He's been using people's curiosity against them since Sammy was old enough to form the word 'why?'.

"Y'know... wings, halos, harps. All those paintings and stuff in museums. Very clearly not-" he gestures at the trench coat as though that explains everything.

The angel looks like he's about to roll his eyes, but doesn't. Dean wonders if he knows how. "My garrison is assigned to watch the Earth. I can assure you that human artists see exactly what they want to see."

The hunter snorts to himself because, yeah, he can see that. Then his brain finally finished processing the angel's first sentence. "Wait- garrison?"

"Yes." At his clear confusion, the angel elaborates. "I am a soldier, Dean. All angels are, save for a select few designed for other tasks."

"You don't get a choice in it at all?" That sounds like a pretty crap gig.

"It is what I was created for." The angel says simply. There's a heartbeat of hesitation, a slight shift of fabric, "I am the strategist for my garrison." The sentence is tentative, like he wasn't expecting to say it and isn't quite sure why he did.

"The strategist, huh?" A memory of Sam bent over maps and research texts five times older than him hits Dean so hard it _hurts_, "That's... pretty awesome."

This silence isn't strained at all. They just sit on the cliff and watch the waves crash against the rocks.

* * *

Dean isn't sure what wakes him up. He's going straight back to sleep, because for being on the floor of a cave he's pretty damn comfortable.

"Hello, Dean."

"Son of a _bitch_!" The hunter jerks away from the far-too-close voice and is grabbing for his knife before he registers who - or _what_ - exactly spoke.

The angel looks confused for a second, then appears to chalk Dean's reaction up to a silly human thing he can't be bothered to understand.

"I apologize for leaving so abruptly before." And- yeah, the angel had been there one second and then Dean had been alone on the cliff the next and what the hell?

But he doesn't want to know. He feels like he ought to be coming down from an adrenaline high and not having a body is still freaking weird.

"Yeah, don't worry about it." He drags a hand down his face. He did _not_ want to wake up that way. Just how long had the angel been there anyway? He was pretty sure when his mother told him angels were watching over him that was _not_ what she had meant.

The angel is silent for long enough that Dean starts to feel nervous.

"So," he says, not sure where he's going with this sentence until suddenly he is, "We ever gonna practice that soul control or whatever?"

That earns him an intense, blue-eyed squint. Like the angel is trying very hard to figure out a complex problem. Then he finally nods, just once.

"That may be for the best."

"Awesome," Dean starts to get up, then is surprised when the angel awkwardly settles cross-legged in the middle of the ground and gestures that the hunter sit across from him. He does so and mentally promises himself that if they start meditating or the angel tells him to clear his mind that he won't start laughing.

He's not sure he can keep that promise, but hey, worth a shot.

But the angel doesn't start spouting any new age crap, which Dean is surprised by, if he's honest with himself. Instead he goes to touch Dean's forehead with two fingers and, when the hunter flinches away on instinct, raises a patient eyebrow.

Dean is so shocked at the evidence of the angel actually being able to move his face that he completely fails to move away a second time and the fingers press firmly against his temple.

Instantly, the dim cave is full of light.

Anticipating pain, Dean immediately shuts his eyes, then remembers how stupid that is and forces them open against his instincts.

He is very surprised to find that the light is apparently coming from _him_.

"What the-" It's bursting out from his chest in streams of thick and thin ribbons. They're spreading outward and filling the entire cavern, curling when they reach the edges to extend thin tendrils back toward their point of origin.

His first instinct is to say that the light is white, but he knows that's not entirely true. It's almost white, but there's a hint of color, faded and barely there. Orange, or maybe peach, it's hard to say, especially when he looks at it head on; he can only really tell it's there at all around the edges.

"This," the angel says in a voice like he's delivering a death sentence, "is your soul."

Dean has to swallow a couple of times before he can form words again, "Is it supposed to be all spread out like that?"

"When you are on Earth, your soul is naturally housed within your body. The souls of some people," the angel makes that face again, like he finds the English language lacking for his purposes, "... leak out and interact with the world around them. In some people that is called strong intuition, but other times it is the nature of those people you call psychics."

"Yeah, I'm guessing it's different here."

"You would be correct. You are your soul, Dean, not your body. The human soul on its own will remain intact. In Heaven, however, it is surrounded by essence of the same nature. That is why it is essential to remain in your Heaven, it is an extension of your own soul. Where we are now is Heaven as it is the essence of holiness, containing all personal Heavens, yet itself something different entirely. Here, your soul will try to merge with the pure energy of Creation."

"That's what it's doing now?" Dean asks, watching warily as one thick strand of light gets perilously close to the cave entrance.

The angel nods. His eyes are shining with light, though whether that's the reflection of Dean's soul or the angel's 'Grace', the hunter can't tell. "One's soul will naturally hold its shape in Heaven for only a certain amount of time, based on the strength of their will. Yours held together surprisingly well for quite some time, given how long you spent outside your Heaven. The piece of Grave I gave you shall serve to anchor your soul against accidental dissipation."

Yeah, as pissed as he was and still is about not being consulted, Dean can get behind that. He enjoys existing, after all.

"The reason your soul extends from you so far at the moment is because you are aware of it," the angel continues, "In general the only time a soul is aware of itself is within its own Heaven, which is an extension of its nature where it can extend as far as it likes."

"That's what you did with the-" Dean gestures vaguely at his head and sees his hand leaking light out of the corner of his eyes and yeah, that's weird. The angel nods again. "So how is this gonna help me find Sammy?"

"If you insist on attempting a return to Earth," the angel pauses to acknowledge Dean's nod, "You will need to be capable of holding yourself together. Without a body to contain or anchor your soul, the Earth, which is starved of the energy of Creation and has been since the Fall, will attempt to absorb the piece of it that makes up your soul."

"So what you're saying," because Dean has to make sure he's absorbing all these essential secrets of the Universe and not missing anything and seriously, how did this become his life? ... or... death, he supposes, "Is that up here there's too much- holiness or Grace or whatever to keep souls happy and healthy on their own and down there there's not enough?"

"Essentially, yes. This place is the Heaven that will descend to Earth after Judgment Day. It takes the form of the Earth at its most pure, before the Fall, and it shows what the Earth will return to. The two will merge and souls will be able to exist and interact without anchors, without fear of ceasing to exist."

Dean doesn't feel like thinking about that too much, so he returns to more important matters, "_And how does that help me find my brother_?"

The angel actually huffs, like Dean is ruining all the fun he's having explaining Heaven to the silly human, "If you wish to go to Earth, you will need to have a strong enough grip on your soul to prevent it from being drawn away from you by the Earth itself."

Okay, that makes sense. "So what do I have to do?"

"You must practice drawing your soul to you and holding it together." the angel gestures to a nearby strand of light. His fingers brush against it and Dean actually feels that and holy _crap_ is it weird. "As it is already extending away from you now that you are aware of it, you can observe your efforts to hold it together."

Alright. That doesn't sound too hard, all of the ribbons of light are attached to him anyhow. He reaches for the nearest one, only to have his hand batted away by the angel.

"Do not use your hands, the incarnation of your soul on Earth might not have them."

"Well what do you want me to use, my mouth?" Dean drawls, irritated.

The angel is apparently unversed in sarcasm. "Your mind."

Huh?

"What?"

"Concentrate."

And this, Dean thinks, is ridiculous, because it's not like he has a body anymore, isn't he doing everything with his mind?

Still, he wants to get back to his brother, so he settles himself more solidly, plants his hands on his knees, and focuses on the strand he tried to grab earlier.

He stares.

And stares.

And _stares_.

"It will not work if you do not expend effort."

"Dammit, I'm _trying_!"

It takes what feels like hours before the strand of soul he concentrates on even so much as twitches in his direction. After that he's so tired that he doesn't even protest when the angel reaches into his personal space and taps his forehead a second time, plunging the cave back into darkness.

He leans against the wall, panting (which is weird because it's not like he _needs_ air), while the angel stands.

"You learn much more slowly than I expected."

"Oh, shut up."

* * *

Alright, that's it for this chapter! You know the drill, thanks for reading, please let me know what you thought, let me know if I screwed something up royally, etc.

See you next week!


	4. Chapter 4

WOW, a lot of you seem to like this story. I'm getting some slight performance anxiety as I still lack a plot... but I'm also still writing, so I think I'll just make it up as I go, shall I?

Hope you enjoy!

* * *

"So, what's with the holy tax accountant look you've got going on?"

It's the fourth or the fifth (or, hell, maybe the sixth, Dean's not really keeping track) time the angel has showed up to help him practice taking control of his soul. That is, if 'help' has a secret second definition that reads 'make snide comments in a totally reasonable tone of voice'.

After this practice Dean was less tired than usual, so he headed out of the cave for the first time in what felt like ages. The angel followed because apparently, as a divine emissary (or, evidently, soldier) he has nothing better to do than hang around a dead hunter.

The angel looks down at his tie, as though just becoming aware of its existence. "This... this is a vessel."

Suddenly Dean doesn't find the ridiculous trench coat funny _at all_, "You're _possessing_ some poor bastard?"

But the angel is shaking his head, a gesture he seems to have picked up from Dean, "No, I merely assume the form of my most compatible vessel on Earth when I speak with human souls."

"What, your shiny angel wings too badass for the puny humans?"

The angel shifts slightly on the grassy hill that's outside the cave today. Dean thinks that if this wasn't Heaven, that trench coat would be getting some pretty awesome grass stains right about now. "I believe confirming that would be what you consider 'rude'."

Well, at least he's finally picking up on sarcasm.

So the hunter changes the subject, "So you have to, what, possess a human on Earth to avoid making other humans' heads explode?"

The angel gives him a look that somehow manages to be longsuffering, "Any human that beheld my true form would have their eyes burned out of their skull."

Yeah... that would suck.

"So," Dean knocks his boot into the somehow still shiny black dress shoe at the end of the angel's outstretched leg. He's copying him again, they're going to have to have a talk about just sitting however he wants and not copying Dean, "What's vessel boy's name?"

The angel gives him a head-tilt and the hunter vaguely thinks he ought to have been keeping count of how many times the angel pulled that particular expression every time he showed up. "James Novak. Though, apparently, he prefers to be called 'Jimmy'."

Dean tries to reconcile the incredibly DOOM face he's been getting for the past whatever amount of time he's been in Heaven with someone named 'Jimmy' and winds up choking on his laughter.

The angel has learned to ignore the hunter when he randomly starts snickering by now, "Though, he would only become my vessel if he consented to do so."

Dean's not sure if that makes it better or not, so instead he knocks the angel on his back (which is a lot harder than it sounds), flops down next to him, and teaches him about cloud watching.

* * *

An undetermined amount of time later (Dean really needs to see if the angel can get him a watch or calendar or something, seriously), Dean wakes up to find himself alone, which is really weird because usually the angel is _right_ there. And it's creepy, yeah, but the fact that he's not there now is stranger.

So, Dean stretches even though he doesn't really need to and heads outside which, today, is a snow covered mountaintop. When the angel _still_ doesn't show, he wanders around a bit, but not too far because the last time he did that the guy had a veritable conniption. Apparently the farther Dean wanders from the cave, the more likely it is that some other angel will find him, which would obviously suck.

When the angel is still AWOL, Dean refuses to worry too much about it because come on, it's not like the guy is required to be around. He probably has important angel business to attend to or something.

He hates having nothing to do, though. Being alone with his thoughts is never a good thing. He learned that the hard way while Sam was at Stanford.

He contemplates building a snowman or something, but it's no fun without someone to throw snowballs at while they're unsuspecting. Like nerdy little brothers or stuffy angels. Heh, he wonders what the angel would look like after getting a snowball to the face.

Eventually, he decides to just practice that soul control thing again, because it's not like he can do anything else productive up here.

He leans against a pine tree by the entrance of the cave and frowns in thought. Usually this is where the angel does that thing that allows Dean to see his soul, but the angel's not here right now.

Still, after nine (or twelve, it's not like he can remember anymore) practice sessions, Dean's learned how it feels to enter that altered state of mind and he's pretty sure he can do it himself.

It takes him a while and almost as much concentration as practicing itself does. He feels the switch slide into place when it happens and huffs a satisfied breath at his success.

He refuses to wonder whether or not he'll be able to change it _back_ and opens his eyes-

* * *

_-There's lights and colors and sounds and it's too much and there's wind rushing in his ears and he feels like he's being torn apart and shoved into a cramped space and falling-_

* * *

-The next thing Dean knows, he's flat on his back and there is one _pissed_ angel kneeling over him, pinning him to the ground with a crushing hand to his chest.

And Dean's gasping air like he's just spent the last twenty minutes underwater and _he shouldn't need to do that-_

The angel uses the hand that would be crushing Dean's ribs if he still had ribs to grab a fistful of the hunter's shirt and haul him up. Dean wants to ask where they're going, but he's still trying to work up to coherent thought.

He winds up getting his half-conscious ass hauled right back into the cave and shoved into a sitting position against the wall and really, he's pretty sure angels shouldn't be capable of getting this pissed-

Then the angel's gone and Dean can't breathe and he's pretty sure his lungs have fallen out of his chest but he doesn't have lungs anymore and _why can't he breathe_-

And now the angel's back and he can breathe again and what the hell?

A plastic sack lands in Dean's lap.

"Eat."

The angel sounds just as pissed as he looks but Dean has a sneaking suspicion that there's another chunk of angel in this food and he really can't think well enough yet to decide whether or not it's a good idea to take in even more angel mojo and even if it is, he has better control over his soul now so maybe he could try absorbing this bit without eating it-

"_No_."

And the angel is apparently reading his mind again, awesome. Still, he looks like he's about to get his holy smite on if Dean doesn't start doing what he's told _right the hell now_, so in his oxygen-deprived stupor (again, how is that possible?) he pops open the Styrofoam in the sack and- Hey, pie!

Dean eats his pie and the angel starts pacing in agitation and if the hunter hadn't already figured out something big just went down, that definitely would have clued him in.

He's starting to get the feeling he just did something stupid that he's about to get chewed out for.

If he'd known the angel was waiting for him to finish the pie before doing said chewing out, he'd have eaten it more slowly.

"What were you thinking?" Yeah, the angel is _pissed_. Dean's getting the feeling that it's only the fact that the fight would be incredibly one-sided that's preventing him from being pummeled right now.

"I-"

"That is the most dangerous _possible_ thing you could have done!" Wow, is the angel actually yelling?

"Dude, calm down," Because Dean is starting to wonder if angels can actually have aneurisms and no one bothered to mention it, "I was just trying to practice, what exactly is wrong with that?" If he can get him to _explain_ instead of rant, this will be over much faster. The angel loves explaining things.

It seems to work. The angel takes a second to collect himself and Dean is certain that if he were human, he'd be indulging a few deep breaths. "I do not know how you managed to gain awareness of your soul on your own, but you must _never_ do it again unless I am present."

"Why?"

The angel's voice drops to a perturbed growl that might actually be more disturbing than the yelling, "Because the Grace I gave you was intended merely to keep your soul from merging with Heaven on its own, is was never intended to anchor it while you actively manipulated it."

"But-"

"When you practiced before, _I_ was what was preventing any part of your soul from venturing outside the cave." Oh. _Oh..._ "And there is a _reason_ I never suggested practicing outside the cave."

Dean opens his mouth to ask, but the angel is on a roll now. He's going to be paying for this for a while, he can already tell.

"I did not just allow you to see your soul when I altered your sight, I was allowing you to see the _nature_ of souls, that spark of Creation that _forms_ a soul. You are standing in the epicenter of all of Creation, you are lucky you didn't instantaneously cease to exist when you forced yourself to see it."

The first thought that pops into Dean's mind after that is that he feels a little gypped he didn't gain some awesome knowledge from that or something.

Judging by the look on the angel's face he's still reading his mind and is now restraining himself from punching the hunter.

"I had to feed you a _significant_ amount of Grace just now to keep your soul from vanishing the instant I let go of you."

Dean really wants to ask about that, but he has a feeling it would be the last thing he ever does.

Instead, he says, "Okay, okay, I get the picture. But what am I supposed to do, man, just sit around here on my ass until you show up?"

The angel seems to have degraded to quiet seething, "If you become impatient you may inform me you have awakened by praying to me."

Praying. Right. He hasn't prayed since he was six and Pastor Jim was watching him and Sammy for the week.

"I thought we were being super paranoid about your 'brothers' finding out I'm out and about."

"If you invoke my name they will not hear you."

Dean is momentarily floored, "You have a _name_? Dude, you never told me you had a name!" And he refuses to feel like a dick for not asking. _Refuses_.

The angel's still obviously annoyed, but now he also looks a little sheepish, "I... apologize. I have never had need to introduce myself before."

"Yeah, well, now you're going to learn," Dean gets to his feet and is pretty damn pleased when his legs hold him and don't drop him right back in the dust. "Because your name? Pretty important stuff to know."

Then without further ado he sticks out his hand and watches the angel look at it like it's some kind of fascinating, undiscovered species of insect.

"Dean Winchester."

The angel stares at him for another handful of seconds before apparently getting a clue and slowly taking Dean's hand.

"Castiel."

Dean valiantly resists the urge to say _anything_ about that sounding like a girl's name.

Then suddenly Castiel's head snaps up like it sometimes does just before he disappears.

"I have to go."

Dean's hand is abruptly empty.

* * *

After Castiel takes off, Dean goes back outside because he feels like he just drank six espressos and he's starting to get the feeling the angel gave him a little more mojo than was strictly necessary.

On the mountainside, there's a five-foot circle of melted snow and torn up grass where he was standing before. The tree he was leaning against has its bark peeled off where his back was pressed against it and the rest of it is looking a little scorched.

He's trying very hard not to think of how close he came to just not existing anymore.

That's one more he owes Castiel. Hell, the amount he owes him now actually perilously close to outweighing the number he outweighs Sam and that's saying something.

Not to mention that whole thing with his 'Grace'.

He's rubbing at his chest again, because he can feel it now, inside him. It's not bad, but he knows it's not him and it's sort of starting to freak him out how alien it feels.

It feels about the size of a baseball, just to the right of where his heart should be. It feels cool and smooth like glass and at the same time warm and soft and burning and electric and he has to fight off a full-body shudder the more he thinks about it.

He has to keep reminding himself that it's only because of the chunk of angel chilling in his chest that he's still alive.

Then it twists inside him and _pulls_.

Dean's flat on his back for the second time in an hour and this time instead of feeling like he's been drowning he feels like someone's just tried to tear his heart out of his chest with the jaws of life.

Taking huge gulps of air (because he got the wind knocked out of him _again_) and mentally yelling at all the cosmic forces because he's _dead_ he should be over this shit, he forces himself to his feet and tries to figure out what the hell just happened.

He's doesn't get a chance to do much investigating, though, because suddenly he's not alone.

"Dean Winchester."

Dean jerks his head around and there's a tall, bald, black guy wearing one of those creepy smiles that has to be patented to sadists and psychopaths.

"You've just become more trouble than you're worth."

The hunter straightens out of his defensive crouch and squares his shoulders. He's got no chance against an angel, but he's not going down quiet. "Yeah? Says who, chuckles?"

There's a gusty sigh from behind him and he looks over his shoulder and finds a wiry blonde guy, "Should have just stayed where I put you, Winchester."

So that's the angel who kept dragging him kicking and screaming back to his Heaven. He makes a mental note to send the guy a Christmas card... full of anthrax.

Then the rest of what the guy says catches up with him and he realizes these guys aren't here to take him back to his Heaven.

"Yes, it's a shame you had to involve Castiel. He had potential."

Dean's body goes cold, but the Grace in his chest _burns_.

There's a low whistle from behind him and he finally shifts to better face the blonde.

"Oh Dean, Dean... what did you make Cassie _do_?"

Dean's sure he would have responded to that with great wit and composure if the angel mojo in his chest didn't choose that moment to _explode_.

It's tearing and burning through him and he's on his knees before he realizes it, one hand holding him up, the other twisted in the front of his shirt and he's dripping sweat and come on, really?

The black guy's smirk widens and he lifts a hand, "Well, it won't matter in a moment."

The air crackles and smells of ozone and Dean's just starting to wonder what's going to happen when he gets smote (and really, it's just his luck, killed again after already dying, he should start making a scorecard and checking off his deaths, he's already got car crash and he's about to get angel homicide, he's bound to get Bingo before anyone else) when there's a crack of air like a sonic boom and all three of them flinch.

"What in the name of-" the blonde's looking up and Dean follows his gaze.

He only has a second to see that something's coming at him before he's enveloped in light and sensation and a flash of charcoal grey feathers.

* * *

_Castiel never thought he'd have to be on guard for an ambush from his own garrison, but then, he never thought he'd be going behind his superior's back either._

_He never thought a lot of things would happen that have._

_Zachariah hadn't been keen on talking. Castiel has heard of angels who disobeyed or questioned orders being sent for 're-education' and that was the extent of what he had feared would befall him if he were discovered._

_He knows now that that was foolishly optimistic. He knows that his superiors have been hiding a Righteous Man. None of them in possession of a drop of sense would allow him to live knowing that. They would not wish to risk other angels making the same decision he had, to do what they know their Father would want over what their superiors claim is correct._

_He'd been surrounded, branded as a traitor, given no chance to defend himself. He would never have escaped had he not had a direct link to Dean to draw himself toward, to give him a boost of speed. He would have been caught still had not some of those of his brothers he considered his friends hesitated to attack. Inias had deliberately lowered his sword and Castiel knows his brother will be punished for that, but he can not restrain the warm gratitude he feels._

_Since meeting Dean, his capacity for emotion has grown beyond measure. He wonders if this is what his Father meant them to learn when He gave humans dominion over them, this ability to feel._

_And now, he is flying toward Dean as quickly as his wings can carry him. He knows he is being pursued and he would not risk leading his brothers to Dean if he were not certain they already knew where he was. The human's loosing of his soul was hardly subtle_

_ Castiel also noticed that neither Uriel nor Balthazar were part of the ambush. Balthazar may have purposely avoided it, but Uriel would not have missed it. He has a rather manic appreciation for smiting._

_There was only one place they would have been sent. And he is certain they will not return Dean to his Heaven, not this time. He has been outside it too long, it will be impossible to completely alter his memory. Zachariah must have decided it was not worth the risk of discovery to keep him alive._

_Castiel pushes himself to fly faster._

_There's a hastily constructed containment barrier surrounding the area of the cave and if Castiel had any doubts that Dean was about to be destroyed, that alone would have laid them to rest. They would have wanted to damage as little as possible in this massacre as well as prevent the hunter from escaping._

_Castiel folds his wings in and dives._

_There is a loud sound when he breaches the barrier and he knows he is injured, though not how severely, but he cannot slow down._

_He is nearly too late as it is. Uriel is gathering his Grace and the only reason Dean still lives is because his would-be murderer is savoring the moment._

_Balthazar senses his approach and looks up. Castiel knows his friend has been discontent for some time with his life in the garrison and hopes that this, at least, is one angel who will not hate him for what he is about to do._

_There's no time to change to the appearance of Jimmy Novak, nor would it be in any way beneficial._

_It is in his true form that he flings himself between the imminent attack and Dean. The shock of being exposed to Castiel sends Dean's soul into its most basic form of pure energy. The confident and near-fearless hunter that he has come to know seems so small in this form of essence and light, he can hardly believe it is capable of producing the intense love he felt whenever Dean spoke of his brother._

_He wraps him in his wings and his Grace and for a moment just shelters him, marveling in this creature his Father created, understanding for an instant why they are meant to be so reverently protected._

_Then Uriel's first strike collides with his wings and it is all he can do to not flinch away. His original intent had been to attempt to escape with Dean, but he had not been able to reach him in time. Now he can only hope he can shield him long enough for his garrison to catch up. He must have a brother curious enough to notice the Righteous Man. One of his brothers must be brave enough to attempt to prevent the smiting of an innocent soul._

_The attacks are coming harder and faster and he knows none come from Balthazar and he is grateful yet again, though he knows it only delays the inevitable._

_Something else hits him then, something not intended to destroy him, something different and entirely impossible for him to identify._

_And then he is falling._

* * *

Alright, that's it for this chapter! Yes, it's a cliffhanger, I know, I'm sorry. Okay, I'm really not _that_ sorry, but still. You know the drill, thanks for reading, please let me know what you thought, let me know if I screwed something up royally, etc.

See you next time!


	5. Chapter 5

Okay, I'm here! Sorry, I'm a little late, life has sort of been kicking me around lately, but here is your chapter! Enjoy!

* * *

Dean's no stranger to waking up in less than ideal conditions; he has never, however, woken up more disoriented in his life.

He's woken up on dirt pretty consistently lately, but now he's flat on his face with a mouthful of it and he can't remember falling asleep. Which means he was probably unconscious, which explains why he feels like he got hit by another semi. And it is _freezing_.

Very carefully, he pushes himself up onto his elbows and jeez, there's something on his back and it is _heavy_.

A quick jerk of his shoulder serves to both dump the burden on his back to one side and inform him that his ribs aren't actually broken. But at the same time, when he pulls himself free there's a horrible sound like ripping leather and something tears off his upper arm and _damn_ it feels like it took several layers of skin with it.

He gets to his knees and, ignoring the throbbing in his right arm that's starting to burn now, he looks over and _holy crap_.

It's Castiel. Castiel is lying in the dirt, limp like a puppet with its strings cut. He's wearing a white T-shirt and scrub pants that are clearly too big for him, stained with spots of blood from a split lip and a cut across one eyebrow.

Do angels bleed? Dean's pretty sure they don't, at least not usually. Clearly something has gone horribly wrong, considering the angel's face is still slowly oozing red.

He's also pretty sure they're not supposed to be able to be unconscious.

He checks Castiel's pulse and breathing and, finding both present and steady, takes a moment to do what he should have done in the first place; he looks around, taking stock of their surroundings.

They're in the middle of an abandoned field, tilled for farming but lacking anything other than dirt and small rocks. It's actually a good thing, considering they're sitting in a crater that, judging by the trail of torn up dirt that is actually steaming slightly, was the result of some kind of crash landing.

That thought is what brings back the memory of feathers.

And the imminent smiting.

How are they alive?

Did Castiel take them somewhere?

Dean stares at the crater they're sitting in, then the torn up earth, and he feels a little sick. Did they fly?

And more to the point, did they fall?

Right, he's getting some answers.

He rolls the angel onto his back carefully, because it looks like he took the brunt of the impact, and shakes him.

"Hey, Castiel. Earth... er, Heaven to Castiel, do you copy?" Another gentle shake and the angel twitches and gives a pained breath. Dean lets out a similar sound, relieved, "Hey, welcome back pal."

Castiel's eyes snap open and he immediately surges upward, stopped only by Dean's hands on his shoulders.

"Whoa, hey, take it easy."

Blue eyes flit around, panicked, before finding the hunter's face. Castiel is breathing hard, like he just fought a mountain lion, but manages to say, "Dean." It's not really an acknowledgment, it's more like a statement of certainty, which makes it all the more confusing, but Dean is just going to move past that.

"Yeah, man, it's me. You okay?" At Castiel's bewildered look, he clarifies, "Anything hurt?"

The angel takes a moment to think hard about this question before answering, "Everything... hurts." He sounds confused, like he's not sure he's using the word correctly, and more than a little lost.

It is not an expression Dean was expecting to see.

"Okay, but does anything hurt _really_ bad? Like your head, or your neck?"

Again, it looks like Castiel is giving that question far too much consideration. "My hand." He finally says, deliberately, a crease between his eyebrows like the pain, or maybe the concept of _having_ a hand, is completely foreign to him.

Dean's pretty sure both options are equally likely.

The angel raises his right arm and studies the palm of his hand, his brows furrowing more and more the more he looks and Dean finally ducks his head to get a glance of his own.

He lets out a low whistle, "Damn, Cas." The angel's palm is an angry, fiery red that glistens in the moonlight like it's wet and looks more than a little inflamed and Dean knows a bad burn when he sees one; he's been sneaking into graveyards and setting stuff on fire since he was old enough to hold a shovel.

But that's not the only thing wrong with the angel. Now that he's lifted his arm into view, Dean can see red all along his forearm and a glance at his left arm shows matching marks. They look like deep, gouged scrapes, like he's been dragged across the ground.

Dean glances one more time at the torn up earth in front of him and realizes that that's probably exactly what happened.

Speaking of.

He opens his mouth to ask what exactly _did_ happen, but it dies in his throat when he hears a familiar sound in the distance.

It's the roar of a car.

He stands up and, in the distance, he can see a low, long strip of black. He inhales deeply and, underneath the stench of ozone and the sharp tang of cold air, he can smell hot asphalt and gasoline. They're near a highway.

Dean's pretty sure they don't have highways in Heaven.

"Castiel," he looks down at the angel, who has sat up and is looking around like he's suddenly found himself in a field of marshmallows and isn't sure if he likes marshmallows or not, "Cas, are we on Earth?"

After a moment, Castiel replies.

"It appears so."

Dean immediately looks down at himself. He's wearing the same white tee and blue pants from the hospital (which is doing nothing for keeping him warm, for the record), it was the last thing he ever wore. He realizes that Castiel's outfit is an exact copy and that's why it's so big on him. _Why_ the angel is wearing the exact same thing as him is a mystery for another time.

He runs his hands compulsively down his chest and then finds himself staring at them. His fingers are straighter than he can ever remember them being, considering how many times they've been broken, but they are definitely _his _hands.

"Cas, I thought you said you couldn't bring me back." He's not sure whether he meant that to be accusing or not, but it comes out slightly awed, so it doesn't matter either way.

"I am not certain I did," the angel answers, getting carefully to his feet so he can stand beside Dean.

The hunter doesn't like the sound of that, "What, you don't remember?"

Castiel gives a slow shake of his head, "I remember escaping an ambush, flying to you, and then..." he trails off, clearly losing his train of memory there. He seems to be getting exponentially more confused by the second.

Dean's getting the feeling that the angel doesn't know any more about their situation than him and _that_ can't be good.

He's going to ask more questions, but then he can see red and blue lights in the distance and it occurs to him that, if they did fall, especially from Heaven (still not thinking about that too hard) then it's entirely possible that it wasn't exactly a subtle descent.

And considering he's legally dead and wanted for murder, the curiosity of the local law enforcement is probably not in their best interest. Not to mention he doesn't particularly want to introduce Castiel to humanity by getting him arrested.

Not in the least because he'd probably introduce himself as an Angel of the Lord and there's no way Dean would be able to get him out of the psych ward on his own.

"Come on," he says, grabbing Cas's sleeve and tugging him toward the road, "We need to get out of here."

* * *

They manage to make it to the tree cover on the other side of the road before the first of the curious locals reach the field. It's not easy to stay out of sight as they try and make their way towards town, but they do it somehow.

It's made even harder by the fact that they're barefoot and just as soon as they're far enough away from what Dean is dutifully not calling the 'crash site', he makes them stop. The rocks and thorns and dead grass hurt like hell, especially since he's pretty sure he got his body back sans calluses; not to mention Castiel is also taking every step like it pains him and he isn't sure why.

With a quick yank, the sleeves of his shirt come free and he tugs them around his feet, knotting the excess cloth around his ankles somehow, despite the fact that his fingers have gone numb. They're a pretty shitty excuse for shoes, but they're ten times better than nothing, so Dean's counting it as a win.

Remembering the burn on Cas's hand, he straightens to do the same for the angel, only to stop when Castiel's good hand touches his now-bare upper arm lightly and he says "Dean" in a significant voice. The hunter hisses and flinches away from the touch, before looking down and remembering the pain in his arm earlier.

It's another burn, a bad one, practically a brand, in the clear imprint of a hand. Dean's eyes automatically go to Castiel's identically injured palm, but the angel is already holding it up for comparison, not touching, but close enough to see that his hand matches the burn perfectly.

"What the hell?" Dean mutters.

"I don't know."

"No, seriously dude, _what the hell?_"

"_I don't know._" Cas growls, pulling his hand away, "I have never before seen precedent for such injuries."

"Okay, okay," Dean runs a hand through his hair, grimacing when he encounters tufts of grass and even small rocks, "We'll figure it out later. First things first," he tears off Castiel's sleeves and MacGyvers some socks for the angel too, "We need to patch you up, but we gotta get some real clothes. And money. No one in their right mind will deal with us if we come in from the street looking like this."

"Why not?" And damn it if the angel doesn't actually sound _sincere_.

"Because, Cas, humans are suspicious of anything that isn't normal and we look like we just busted out of a mental institute and then wrestled with dirt devils."

"What is a dirt devil? I have never encountered such a creature before."

_Christ_, Dean is not having this conversation. He and the angel hobble along the road for an hour and a half before they reach the outskirts of a small town. There's not a lot around, for all they're just off the highway; a fill up joint, an auto garage, the saddest excuse for a movie theater Dean has ever seen, and a Goodwill.

Fortunately, Dean has spent most of his life using whatever is at hand to get from point A to point B and he's gotten pretty good at it.

Theater parking lots are the place to go to find anything that could possibly be dropped out of someone's pocket and after five minutes of searching Dean has four bobby pins, two paper clips, a handful of spare change, and a twenty dollar bill. He's crossed the country on less.

Ten minutes later, he's picked the lock on the Goodwill, stalwartly ignoring Castiel's burning stare of disapproval, and they've slipped inside. It's only marginally warmer inside the store, since the employees apparently turn off the heat when they leave, but Dean will take what he can get.

He tells Cas to find something to wear and takes off to find something for himself. Thankfully, there will never be a shortage of flannel button-downs, jeans, or T-shirts in the world and he finds himself an entirely new wardrobe in less than five minutes.

After that, he checks the back room and gets lucky. Not only do the employee lockers yield some more cash, but there's a First-Aid kit stashed at the back of one of the shelves above the single desk the room boasts.

He heads back into the store and finds Castiel exactly where he left him.

"Dude what's the holdup?" The angel doesn't answer him, just continues staring in confusion at the racks of clothes and Dean abruptly realizes that Castiel probably isn't quite sure what the function of clothes even is. The hunter lets out a groan, dumps his finds on a nearby table covered with secondhand books, and sets about finding clothes for the angel too.

Things would have gone totally smoothly (AKA, Dean would have decked the angel out in _practical_ clothes just like his) if Castiel hadn't caught site of the few suits in the store and recognized them as something similar to what he wore when he took the form of his vessel to talk to Dean in Heaven.

No way is Dean on board with that. It helps that Cas is a scrawny little angel and none of the suits actually _fit_, but he has one heck of a stubborn streak that Dean had in no way expected.

Eventually, they compromise. They find a pair of slacks that fit Cas (with the aid of a belt), a white button-down, and (after a brief argument in which Dean is treated to what he swears is some perverse and twisted form of angelic Puppy Eyes) a blue tie.

And then, because Dean may or may not be a vindictive jerk (and because it's _cold_ outside), the hunter goes to the selection of coats and finds a tan trench coat that, while not an exact match to the one from Heaven, is close enough to make Dean chuckle to himself (not giggle, never giggle) and Castiel to stare at him in bewildered confusion.

The hunter is perfectly aware that the only thing that prevents this outfit from being exactly like the one Cas wore in Heaven is the lack of a suit jacket, but he refuses to acknowledge this out loud and suspects the angel is going to sneak on a blazer when he isn't looking anyway.

Now that Castiel has another holy tax accountant outfit all picked out, Dean cleans and wraps up his bloody arms so he won't stain the thing red right off the bat. Then comes actually putting it on and Dean can't believe he has to talk the angel through getting dressed which, of course, means first talking him through getting _undressed_ which is something he will never admit to even under pain of death.

Castiel gets his shirt over his head with jerky, pained movements and only then does Dean see the splotches of red on the back of the thin, hospital-issue tee, under all the dirt stains that had already dirtied the fabric.

"Whoa, hold up, Cas," he says, walking around to stand behind the angel, who automatically freezes at the command. The hunter takes a sharp breath at what he sees.

Castiel's arms hadn't been as bad as he'd expected, the blood smears and dirt had made them look worse than they actually were. The angel's _back_, however, is another thing entirely. Mottled bruises, from blue to black to purple and back again are already making themselves known, they're the worst at the arches of Cas's shoulder blades. Patches of skin have been rubbed so raw that they're seeping blood still, and even from here Dean can see that the swelling is going to be monumental in a couple of hours.

"Christ, man, why didn't you say something?" He says through gritted teeth, taking advantage of his position to check the angel's spine and ribs for any give that might indicate a break.

"I believed I would be able to heal the damage," Castiel explains, hissing as Dean's probing fingers find a tender rib, "I _should_ be able to heal it. Dean," the angel's voice is serious, hesitant, and maybe just a little afraid, "there's something wrong with me." He says it like it's something he expects to be shot for and the hunter is blindsided by the anger that wells up in him at that. He doesn't stop to think about why, he just forces himself to count to five in his head before responding.

"Don't worry man, we'll figure it out, we just gotta clean you up first and get somewhere safe." He works while he talks, cleaning sores, taping gauze, working soothing cream into the worst of the bruised skin, carefully avoiding open wounds. It's only once he's finished, helped Castiel into his new shirt, and taught him how to work buttons that he realizes how easy it had all been. He's always been good at taking care of people, sure, but he never thought that would extend to busted up angels.

Fortunately, Cas can manage pants on his own, which gives Dean time to change into his own clothes which are much, much warmer than the tissue-thin pajamas he'd been wearing before. He finds himself a leather jacket for good measure and turns to find Cas looking almost as good as new (aside from the cuts on his face and the pallor tone of his skin), which is somehow reassuring.

Dean grabs a pair of work boots that look like they'll fit from a box of old shoes, leaving Cas to sift through them (he'll probably pick out loafers or something, Dean makes a mental note to grab another pair of boots before they leave), and makes his way back to the employee room. Sure enough, there's a phone there.

Dean has a grand total of four numbers memorized. His own, Sam's, his dad's, and Bobby's. He grabs the receiver and, before he can hesitate, punches in Sam's number.

It rings once, then chimes three times before an automated voice tells him the number has been disconnected.

He hangs up, scowling. He's not going to think about why Sam's phone is out of service, not going to think about how long he could possibly have been gone.

He considers calling Dad, but at that thought he just feels anger rise hot inside him. Dad didn't even _try_ to help him in the hospital, he just had Sammy get ingredients so he could hunt that demon.

Dean wonders furiously who has caused more damage to their family, the yellow-eyed demon or Dad, then he immediately runs a hand down his face, forcing himself to calm down. His fingers, which are _freezing_ against his face, dissipate the heat of anger quickly.

The door opens behind him, "Dean?"

Right, this isn't just about him right now, he has to take care of Cas too. No way is he putting his dad and Cas in the same room, it is just not worth the risk if his dad finds out Cas isn't necessarily human.

"Is something wrong?"

He shakes his head, "Nah, Cas, just give me a second, I need to call a friend of mine."

He picks up the receiver and, upon hearing the dial tone for a second time, punches in the only number he knows that hasn't changed since his childhood.

It takes a few rings, but something hard dissolves in his chest when the other end of the line is picked up and a familiar voice growls, "_It's four in the morning, this had better be important_."

* * *

I know it's short and I know I'm evil, I'm sorry!

Also, the pagebreak formatting in the doc manager is being weird, let me know if there's a problem in the actually posted chapter please!


	6. Chapter 6

I'm back! Don't really have much to say, but enjoy!

* * *

Dean takes a deep, shaky breath and reminds himself that he is not a girl so crying right now, even a little, would be completely unacceptable. Bobby's still alive. He can't have been in Heaven _that_ long.

"_Either speak up or hang up, ya idjit, but quit wastin' my time."_

At that, Dean finally found his voice. "Bobby! Bobby, it's me."

"_Who's _'me'_?"_ the older hunter's voice was laced with suspicion.

"Dean!" There's a click, then the dial tone, and Dean stares dumbly at the receiver in his hand. "Oh you have _got _to be kidding me." He dials again, fingers punching the buttons as though he can communicate his frustration along the connection ahead of him.

"_What_?" Oh, he doesn't sound happy.

"Bobby, listen to me-"

"_This isn't funny. Call again and I'll kill you._" Click.

Dean glares at the receiver, toying with the idea of calling back, Bobby has to _find_ him to kill him, after all, but he knows they don't have that kind of time.

"What's wrong?"

He sighs, "Nothing, Cas. Just Bobby being a paranoid bastard." He doesn't blame the guy, not really, but still.

Dean stands and looks over at the angel, who looks nervous and concerned. It's a weird look on him. In Heaven he'd been unflappable, rock solid and on the level. Now he's moving gingerly, trying not to cause himself more pain than he's already in, his expression getting more and more worried as the new sensation of _hurt_ fails to go away.

There's not a lot Dean can do, but he's very, _very_ good at distractions.

He rolls his shoulders and sighs, "Alright Cas, guess we're on our own here. First things first, we gotta get ourselves a car."

* * *

It is stupidly easy to get a car. The auto garage right by the Goodwill has some piss-poor security and Dean has no problems saying so.

Once inside, Dean rummages around in the piles of clipboards until he finds a truck that's already fixed and just needs to be picked up in the morning. He swipes the keys and heads back outside, where Castiel waits.

Dean can't tell if it's a good or bad thing that the angel has yet to harp on him about all this stealing. On the one hand, he's glad not to have to deal with it, on the other, is Cas really in so much pain that he's _that_ distracted?

The hunter tacks that onto the list of things to think about when they're at least one hundred miles away and leads the angel out to the lot. They find the '97 Dakota that the keys belong to and climb inside, Dean wincing at the over-loud squeak the driver's door makes.

Thankfully, the truck has three quarters of a tank already in it. Dean nods to himself, cranks up the heat, shows Cas how to lock and unlock the doors, and tells the angel to stay put. He then steps out of the truck and walks the short distance to the gas station nearby.

The door makes an all-too-familiar chiming sound when he walks in and he spares a second to wonder if all station have to get one installed over the door when they open the place before they're allowed to do business. He nods to the bored looking teen working the graveyard shift (what _time_ is it, anyway?), snags one of the blue plastic baskets, and casually makes his way through the aisles.

Several kinds of soda and chips go in the basket, followed by water bottles and protein bars. Then, because Dean doesn't have the faintest clue what Cas likes, he grabs a bottle of milk, an orange, and a banana too. He considers some apples too, just for the sake of irony, but disregards the idea when he sees how bruised they are.

He get himself a cup of black coffee and a newspaper. He carefully avoids looking at the date on the paper while he pays, not certain he'll be able to control his reaction to however much time has passed. Once outside, he resists even longer still, just long enough to climb into the only-slightly-warmer cab of the truck and dump his purchases into the eight inches of space between him in the angel.

Then, and only then, does he unfold the paper and glance at the top.

He and Cas are in Lubbock County (Texas, his mind supplies), and it's February 14, 2007.

It's been seven months.

Dean laughs until Castiel gives him that too-familiar head-tilt of angelic confusion, and then he laughs all the harder.

_It's only been seven months_.

He'd still getting his breath back when he shifts the truck into gear and beams at the bewildered angel in the passenger seat, "Happy Valentine's Day, Cas."

Then they hit the highway.

* * *

Through some miracle (and that sentence is never going to not be ironic when there's an angel in the car, _never_), Dean manages to find a classic rock station getting a decent signal and proceeds to spend the next two hours lecturing Castiel about the pros and cons of various bands.

At least, he lectures until the angel's eyes start drooping closed and he starts listing to one side. Then he sighs and turns the music down.

"Dude, if you're bored, you could just say something." He can't really blame Cas for being tired, though. It's been a long night, he's injured, and the warmth of the car (the heater had finally kicked in after about an hour) was making even Dean a little fuzzy-headed.

Castiel gives him that confused look again, though. "I am not... bored."

"Come on, man, you're barely keeping your eyes open."

"Yes," the angel squints at the windshield as though it can provide answers, "I am having... difficulties preventing them from closing."

"You're _tired_, Cas," is Dean actually explaining the concept of fatigue to an _angel_? "Just take a nap."

The look the angel shoots him now is wide-eyed and verging on panic. "Angels don't need sleep."

"Yeah well, it's been a long night-"

"No. Dean." Cas's blue eyes are wide and definitely a little panicky now, "_Angel's don't need sleep._"

Even Dean can tell that this conversation is going to require his full attention, so he pulls over onto the side of the road and parks the truck. He shifts in his seat to face the angel, "Alright man, I'm listening."

Is Castiel _fidgeting_? "I... do not know what is happening." He says after a few heartbeats of almost painful silence, "I should not require rest. I should be able to heal the damage to my vessel," he stares at his hands. "My vessel... I... Dean, I do not know how we came to be on Earth. But I never requested Jimmy's consent to become a vessel. I have never taken a vessel before, but I am certain that it should not be so... quiet... if a human soul still resides in it."

"So... what? You think you've got your own meatsuit? Or Jimmy just isn't home anymore?" The last idea makes Dean feel a little sick. If that's true, what happened to the guy?

"I don't know." And not knowing is clearly freaking Cas right the hell out. The look he has on right now would, on anyone else, look like slight discomfort, but after being around the guy so long, Dean can tell he's trying to hold back a panic attack. "I have attempted several times to access my Grace, but I cannot. I cannot fly, I cannot feel my wings, I cannot even touch your mind. I'm just incredibly..."

Human.

Well... shit.

But if there's one thing Dean's good at, after all this time, it's calming down people who are freaking out, making light of heavy situations, "Listen, Cas, whatever it is that went down back there, it was big. Maybe you just used up a bunch of angel mojo. Let's just figure it out as we go for now. We're on our way to go see Bobby. He knows more about the supernatural than most of the rest of the hunters in the country combined, he'll probably have a theory or six. And who knows, maybe you just need to rest up and refuel."

Castiel makes a little noise like he doesn't know how to be reassured but would really like to be and okay, that's enough of the angst. Dean twists to look in the backseat, he's pretty sure he saw- aha! He grabs a handful of rough fabric and yanks the sleeping bag tucked behind the front seat up to rest between him and Cas.

It's the work of a second to untie and unzip the thing, throwing it flannel side down over the surprised angel, who actually makes a startled squawk of surprised that Dean is pretty sure in the most hilarious thing _ever_. He nearly sprains something laughing when Castiel's rat's nest hair appears after the angel wrestles the sleeping bag down to give him an accusatory, put upon look.

"I'm glad this is so amusing for you," Castiel's bitchface could really give Sam a run for his money.

Dean's pretty confident the angel isn't actually pissed, considering he hasn't been smote yet (he's pretty sure Cas could smite something by glare alone, current lack of angelic powers be damned), so he just shrugs and pulls back out onto the highway, "Yeah, yeah, take a nap, princess. I'll wake you up when it's time for breakfast."

* * *

It's high noon and about six hours later when Dean finally stops for longer than it takes to fill up the truck.

They're in the middle of nowhere Kansas at a crappy diner that looks just about as inviting to Dean as a friend's house would to a normal person.

He pokes Cas until the angel grunts at him and makes his way to the forefront of consciousness. For a soldier, the guy sleeps like the dead.

There's a split second when Castiel wakes up where he looks confused, then there's recognition, then finally resignation. Dean does not like that at all, so he doesn't give it time to become a permanent feature.

"Come on, Sleeping Beauty. Breakfast!"

It true that they're probably not serving breakfast anymore at this hour, but proper breakfast hours are for productive members of society. And Sam.

They grab a table in the corner, slightly sticky, squeaky seats, and the smell of the grill hits Dean somewhere around the knees and practically drops him into the booth. Castiel is giving him a look like he's concerned for the hunter's sanity, and sits primly across from him, carefully trying to avoid putting any pressure on his shoulders.

A waitress comes over to take their orders and Dean turns the charm all the way up to eleven as he orders a double bacon cheeseburger with extra bacon and, when Cas just stares at the menu as though he's never seen paper before, another of the same.

Then he asks what kind of pie they have today.

Ten minutes later he's halfway through his burger and has yet to stop to take a breath and Castiel is just staring at his as though he expects it to up and bite his throat out.

"Eat the beautiful greasy burger," Dean insists, shoving three fries into his mouth. Cas scowls at him, like watching him is physically painful, but takes a bite of his burger.

Two minutes later the whole thing is gone and the angel is starting in on his fries. Dean refrains from saying 'I told you so', but only just.

He instead gives his pie his full attention.

They spend almost the rest of their cash paying for their food and Dean knows they need to get more money to fill up the truck, which is why he grins to himself when they walk out into the parking lot and he sees there's a bar next door. It's way early, so there probably won't be many people there, but whoever it is will probably be bored enough that he'll be able to hustle some pool anyway.

And, like the Heavens are smiling on him (ha ha), there's a park across the street. He shoves Cas at it and tells him to go commune with nature or something. That gets him another bitchface, but he's not taking the angel into a bar during a hustle, he can almost guarantee he'll give the game away.

Besides, he really needs a beer.

* * *

Dean doesn't realize he's been in the bar for hours until he walks outside and sees how far the sun has moved.

He briefly feels kind of like an ass, then almost has a panic attack when he realizes he can't see Castiel anywhere. The horror dies when he sees Cas in the distance sitting on a bench and is quickly replaced by a healthy helping of 'what the hell?'.

Crossing the street without looking both ways, Dean refuses to take his eyes off the scene in front of him in the hopes that it will quickly become something different, something that makes slightly more sense. But no, no apparently getting resurrected is all the powers that be are willing to give him because everything remains the exact same.

Cas is sitting on the bench, posture rigid like he swallowed a lightning rod, and there is a girl who looks about eight sitting next to him and playing with his fingers like they're fascinating, a boy who looks about the same age standing on the angel's other side and looking on, and a little girl about five or six sitting in the angels lap, babbling at him and playing with his tie.

Dean has one strong, resounding moment of utter confusion before he looks around like a total creeper to see if there's any parents around calling the cops because their children are inexplicably drawn to the strange man sitting in the park wearing a trench coat. But no, there's no parents and the kids all have backpacks so they were probably on their way back from school so there's hope for Cas not getting arrested yet.

So, schooling his face into an expression that he hopes looks less like he swallowed a raw lemon, Dean approaches the park bench.

"Dean." Castiel still says his name like it's a secret eleventh commandment, brought down from the mountain by Moses himself and that will never stop being weird.

"Hey, Cas, what are you doing?" Anyone schooled in social interaction would pick up the underlying '_what the hell do you think you're doing_' in that seemingly innocuous question, but Dean apparently conveniently forgot he was dealing with the most socially stunted angel in existence.

"Madeline is telling me about her day at school." Cas says calmly, using his free hand to steady the little redhead when she loses her balance and looks like she's about to fall off his lap. She giggles and tugs on his tie again.

"Oh... is that so?" Christ, can't the guy take a hint?

Apparently not, "Yes." Castiel curls his fingers and the girl next to him places her hand on his, marveling at the size difference. The boy shifts nearby and Dean would recognize that protective big brother look anywhere.

"Well, sorry kids, but I'm going to have to steal Cas now." He says as calmly as possible when all of his 'stay under the radar' instincts are screaming at him.

Dean likes kids, he really, really does, and not just because they're fantastic witnesses; they don't have that ingrained tendency toward self-delusion yet, they just tell it how it is. And kids, for the most part, tend to like him because he listens to them and takes them seriously.

However, the number one way to get noticed is hanging out with a kid. Sam had explained it as some sort of biological imperative for humans to automatically take note of children, but Dean had learned to tune him out after he started talking about Darwinism.

Cas seems on the verge of a sigh as he lifts Madeline off his lap and sets her down next to who Dean is guessing is her brother. The other girl scampers off the bench as well, beaming up at Cas like he's Santa. The boy seems to hesitate for a moment, before reaching into the pocket of his coat and handing Cas a Tootsie Pop like it's the Holy Grail.

Castiel takes it gravely, "Thank you, Josiah."

Josiah ducks his head, ears flaming red, and leads his sisters away. Madeline drags her feet, looking over her shoulder to wave at Cas one more time.

"Bye-bye, Mr. Angel." She says, sweet as can be, and Dean's head nearly explodes.

* * *

"I do not understand why you are so irate." Castiel says in a totally reasonable tone of voice that sort of make Dean want to crash the car into a telephone pole or something. Because he's totally stable like that.

"Listen, Cas," he can be reasonable too, really, no matter what Sam says, "We're trying to not draw attention, okay? People pay attention to kids hanging around strangers. Especially strangers wearing flasher trench coats." The coat had seemed like such a good idea at the time too, it really had.

"What is a flasher?"

Dean manfully resists the urge to beat his head against the steering wheel until he is unconscious, because that would be the easy way out, "Just... no more hanging around kids in the park and telling them you're an angel." God, Dean feels dirty just saying it.

Cas frowns, like Dean has wounded his honor or something, "I did not tell them I was an angel, they simply knew."

Dean nearly crashes the car.

"_What_?!"

"Children are much more receptive to the spiritual than adults. They are more honest with themselves, surely you must have noticed children are more trustworthy than adults in such matters."

"Yeah, but that doesn't explain how they knew you were an _angel_."

"Young children can sense holiness, Dean. They instinctively want to draw near to it. My Father is particularly fond of children; the faith of a child is often much stronger than that of an adult and they give their love unconditionally."

Dean flashes back to the handful of times Pastor Jim had forced him and Sam into Sunday school, that awful 'Jesus Loves the Little Children' song that he still remembers the words to because Sam would not stop singing it for hours and he feels a hot rush of anger.

He knows he was in Heaven and Cas is an angel, but it never really hit him until that second that that meant the Big Man Upstairs might be real too and if He is, He and Dean _really_ need to have words.

It takes an awful gasping breath for him to tamp the anger down into something he can manage and he thinks if he even speaks to Castiel now he's going to go off on the poor guy. It's not Cas's fault Dean grew up at age four and Sam _never_ got to be a kid. It's not.

But Dean might just take it out on him anyway if he stops concentrating on the road, so he turns the horrible radio commercials up until he knows he won't be able to hear if Cas says something and keeps driving.

Twenty minutes later, Cas has apparently learned enough about how radios work to reach over and turn the volume down.

"I have offended you." It's a statement, not a question, and _Christ_ Dean instantly feels like an asshole because Cas manages to looking like a kicked puppy _without moving a single facial muscle_. Seriously, Dean needs to find out how he does that.

"We're not having this talk, Cas."

"I was unaware it was already an established conversation."

"Oh, _now_ you do sarcasm." He grumbles, but feels sort of weirdly tingly proud at Cas showing off his newfound ability to be sarcastic and now he feels like he needs to go punch a wall or kill a Wendigo or something to restore his masculinity.

"_Dean_."

"You didn't offend me, Cas, okay? But I still don't want to talk about it." The hunter says when Castiel opens his mouth to rephrase his question.

The angel seems mollified, but only a bit, and he practically sulks for the next fifty miles.

* * *

They reach Singer Salvage at the ass-crack of dawn the next day and Dean's surprised he managed to keep them on the road for the last hundred miles with the way his eyes keep drooping, but hey, no harm no foul.

And, God, Bobby's house is a sight for sore (literally, they're starting to burn) eyes. The old thing looks like it'd fall apart if you breathed on it strongly enough, but Dean knows just how sturdy it is.

He parks the truck and takes a second, just a second, to bask in the feeling of homecoming. Sure, it won't be complete until he's hurtling down the road in the Impala with Sam in the passenger seat, but he'll take what he can get.

After a moment of considering whether or not making Cas stay in the car would be worth it, Dean decides he can just introduce him as the angel who dragged him down from Heaven and Bobby will throw holy water on them and it will be hilarious, though that's probably just the sleep deprivation talking because nothing ever goes that smoothly in his life.

He yawns and stretches in the limited space available (not stalling of course, no siree) and Castiel apparently decides that he needs to take it upon himself to get anything done and gets out of the car and is halfway to the house before Dean manages to scramble out of the cab after him.

So they stand on the porch and Cas does that stare that makes Dean think the angel is cataloguing every single one of his freckles and judging them until he gets his shit together and starts banging on the front door with one fist.

It takes about five minutes for Bobby to answer the door, which isn't surprising considering he was probably asleep and had to get on pants and get downstairs.

"Something had better be on _fire_," Dean can hear the older hunter grumble from the other side of the door and his heart does a weird jumping thing at the familiar voice, "because if there's not, I'm gonna start one-"

That's when the door opens.

"Surprise." Dean tries weakly, trying not to smile too wide because it's _Bobby_, worn trucker hat and everything and _dammit, he is not a girl._

"I... I don't..."

Dean is right there with him, "Yeah, me neither." He takes a step into the house and he blames being awake for twenty-seven hours straight for the fact that he doesn't see the silver knife until Bobby has nearly imbedded it in his eye.

Then the angel freaking _materializes_ between them and the next thing Dean knows, Cas has grabbed the wrist with the knife, disarmed Bobby, twisted his arm behind his back, pinned the older hunter to the wall, and is now holding the silver to his throat with a _really freaking scary_ expression.

All of which is... kind of badass.

Then Dean remembers how quickly things can get screwed up in his life (current situation an absolutely fantastic example) and grabs Cas's wrist before the angel can do any permanent damage, "Whoa, easy, Cas! Easy!"

"He attacked you." Castiel's voice is a low growl, like he's frustrated with himself for not being able to smite Bobby then and there.

"He thinks I'm a shifter," Dean ignores the sarcastic 'Oh, and you're _not?!_' that comes from Bobby at that, because he'd like to come out of this without any fatalities, "Come on, man, let him up." He cajoles, carefully prying at Cas's fingers until the angel releases the blade to him.

It takes a second of Castiel wrestling with his apparent instinct to '_kill, smite, burn_' before he reluctantly lets Bobby up with a warning to not attack again delivered in the scary growly voice that makes it sound like he gargles gravel.

Bobby's grabbing at his shoulder and Dean really hopes Cas didn't dislocate it or something and staring at Dean like he's, well, risen from the grave. But there is also a shit ton of suspicion in there and at least Dean has a silver knife now, that makes this easier.

"Bobby, listen to me, I'm not a shifter." The older hunter's eyes narrow and his jaw sets and Dean quickly supplements: "OR a Revenant!"

"My ass," Bobby growls, shifting like he's going to go for either the shotgun duct taped to the underside of the table or whatever weapon is stashed on top of the refrigerator, both are only steps away.

Still hoping for the whole 'no fatalities' thing, Dean shrugs out of one sleeve of his jacket, rolls up a shirt-sleeve as quickly as he can, and, after a quick, steadying breath, draws a long line of blood across his arm with the silver blade.

Castiel makes a strangled sort of choking sound, like Dean's cutting into _him_, but the hunter is looking at Bobby.

Bobby goes through about six different expressions in three seconds, finally settling on desperate hope, "... Dean?"

Dean tosses the knife to one side, "That's what I've been trying to tell you."

And then Bobby is hugging him. Which is totally acceptable since he did, y'know, _die_. Bobby probably needs to make sure he's really alive is all.

And Dean's not choking back tears or anything, no sir.

Over Bobby's shoulder, Castiel is staring at the pair of them, doing that 'you humans puzzle me' head-tilt that Dean's gotten so familiar with.

Then Bobby's pulling back to look at him, like he wants to make sure he's not dreaming.

Apparently, Dean passes muster, because the next words out of Bobby's mouth are, "It's good to see you, boy."

"Yeah," he replies, swallowing, "Yeah, you too."

Then Bobby throws holy water in his face and he _totally_ called that one.

* * *

"An _angel_," Bobby says incredulously, giving Cas the stink eye and obviously sorely tempted to run every single supernatural test he knows of. He's already thrown holy water on the guy (and teaching the angel the function of towels is one of the more surreal experiences Dean's ever had, seriously), but Cas outright refused trial by silver knife and Dean wasn't gonna make him, the cuts on his arms still haven't healed yet.

Castiel stares right back and _Christ_, this is gonna get awkward.

Dean clears his throat and now they're both staring at him and that is not any better. "Yeah, well, as far as I can tell, Cas here is the only angel who isn't a complete dick," Castiel looks warily happy at this dubious praise.

"So. Heaven." Bobby says it carefully, with a knife-sharp edge of hope, like he needs to know that's where Dean has been for seven months, like he needs to have it confirmed that the younger hunter wasn't in Hell or some other horrible afterlife.

Dean shrugs, "Eh, good for a vacation, but I wouldn't want to live there." The older hunter kind of looks like he wants to hug Dean again, so Dean continues right on, hoping to distract him, "Sam's number's not working." He swallows quickly and continues, "He's... he's not-"

"Oh, he's alive." Bobby says quickly, "As far as I know."

Dean lets out a sigh, then pauses, "Wait... 'as far as you know'? Bobby, what happened after I died?"

"I think you'd better ask Sam about that," is what Bobby says, but the glare he's giving Dean says 'you died, ya idjit, what do you _think_ happened?'

Which is something Dean is very carefully not thinking about _thankyouverymuch._

"Well do you have any idea how to find him?" He asks instead. "He called or anything?"

Bobby shakes his head, but steps over to his desk. It's covered in maps and newspaper articles. "I've been keepin' tabs on what I can from here, dishing out jobs to hunters in the area. There's some jobs that get taken care of before I can put anyone on them. I'm guessing that's Sam."

Dean considers asking if that could be his dad, but decides against it. If it turns out to be, he'll deal with it then. "Alright, we got an area to search?"

Tapping a pen against a map, Bobby replies, "There's a hotel in Cornwall, Conneticut. Three freak accidents before I could get ahold of someone to put on it. He went to check it out, talked to the family that owned the place, it was an old house before it was a hotel. They've moved out, the mom was real careful about insisting everything was an accident, but the little girl mentioned a man helped them. A real tall one."

Dean lets out a breath, Sammy's alive. He swallows once, and turns around, "Whaddya say, Cas? Up for another road trip?"

The angel blinks at him, "I hope you intend to sleep before then."

Dean kind of feels like he could hit the road right now, but then Bobby wants to know what Castiel is talking about and when the hunter finds out he's been up for nearly thirty hours, he all but knocks him back onto the couch with an order to 'get some rest ya idjit', and Dean huffs and grumbles, but turns his face into the armrest.

It kind of smells like home.

* * *

Well everyone, that's it, another chapter done. What do you all think?


End file.
